#ravenne

Mosaïques byzantines. Plafond du mausolée de Galla Placidia à Ravenne. Italie.

I still think the one thing that would benefit Riften most is another fire.

Ravenne may have technically owned a house in the city now, but when it came to brass tacks, she’d prefer to live in Oblivion. The Imperial takeover had done nothing to alleviate the city’s aura of corruption and decay - in fact, since Maven Bitch-Briar had taken over, it seemed to have only gotten worse. She could almost swear the city even smelled worse.

If the city was attacked by a dragon, who would she bother to save? Well, Madesi and Brand-Shei; they were both too good for the place anyway. Galathil, because her skills were too useful, though she’d probably be safe in the Ratway as it was - safe from dragons, anyhow. Maybe Bersi, just because good general-goods merchants were hard to come by. Everyone else could burn, so far as she cared, especially the Legionnaires. It had been Tullius’s idea to assign mostly Nord Legionnaires to formerly Stormcloak-held territories; the only difference Ravenne could see from the original Stormcloak guards was the uniforms. They spouted the exact same racist nonsense and offhand mockery as...well, literally every guard in every hold in Skyrim. It got so very tiring sometimes, especially from Legionnaires who should have known better.

And, as she headed down the alley towards the Pawned Prawn, the guard just had to toss out a pointless dig - “Let me guess, someone stole your sweetroll.”

I didn’t kill Ulfric Stormcloak for this.

Her hand dropped to her side just before she touched the door handle. Turning on her heel to face the guard, her posture so militarily precise even Tullius would have struggled to emulate it, let alone find fault with it, Ravenne looked him dead in the eye, held his gaze until he started to squirm a little, and said one word: “Legate.”

The Legionnaire just stared at her in bewilderment; even the gold-embroidered cape he must have gotten a very clear view of hadn’t given it away. This one wouldn’t be making Praefect any time soon. “I, uh...what was that?” was all he managed to say.

“I believe,” Ravenne continued, her tone as icily precise as her posture, “that what you meant to say was ‘Let me guess, someone stole your sweetroll, Legate.”

“I, um...sorry? What...?”

“Come on, Legionnaire. Let’s take it from the top. ‘Let me guess, someone stole your sweetroll, Legate.’”

“I...I don’t understand.”

“Right, then, we’ll do it this way. Repeat after me. ‘Let me guess...’“

Finally, the point she was trying to make seemed to be getting through that thick skull. “Let me guess, someone stole your sweetroll, Legate!” the Legionnaire said, with the same expression of blank fear as a raw recruit facing a particularly nasty sergeant.

“Well done,” Ravenne said crisply, masking her satisfaction at making this bonehead wriggle like a worm on a hook. “Thank you for asking, Legionnaire, but my sweetroll is still sitting in my pack, quite unharmed.” Then, because she could see they were drawing a bit of an audience, she produced the sweetroll in question for all to see. “Perhaps you’d care to inspect it.”

“Um...no, ma’...I...that is...no, Legate. It seems...all correct, Legate.”